Horror

The Little Green Room.

San Quentin Prison, California, 10am, November 8 1957.

Throbbing in my skull
the blood stains the pavement,
ribs like spears
in my lungs,
heart stopped about 5 minutes
after my spine snapped,
knees splits
arms shattered
muscles ripped,

She was the lumberjack's wife,
while he was out
she had many affairs,
all of which i could hear
from just upstairs,
all day they would stay,
thats excesive foreplay
for a hour of fun,

This is a long 'short' I've been working on for a while. It utilises northern Australian Aboriginal folklore and I'd be very interested in reader's opinions.

I'm not crying,
my soul is just
bleeding out of my eye,
and onto my face
to leave a trail
across my skin,
they say pain
is a material thing
but sometimes
it goes all the way in,

Where does he get them? Crisp One hundred dollar bill - yet all with the same serial number but they are not forgeries - tested and retested to be genuine. So, where does he get them . . .

Who will pluck some flowers
and place them upon their grave?

When I am gone, play football with my head,
For if you don’t, I might as well be dead.

My teaser is too long, apparently!
Hey, Tony, it's about time our teasers weren't too long.

do not let anyone rape your son and daughter

Think of a nursery rhyme about Leatherface from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

I was blindfolded when they brought me here. No sounds or smells were familiar as my body rattled through the city, slightly bruised and battered. They must’ve slipped me something as I drifted.

It was hunting, roaming. The rotten taste of death was craved...

‘Well what do you suggest I do, John? Offer him a fucking raise? Tell him there’s no hard feelings, all’s forgiven? Then let him sleep with my God-damn fucking wife?’

The room was grand but it had seen better days, it’s shabby interior echoing the seedy exploits it had more recently contained.

He needed to think about this, needed to get his own story straight. No one would believe his explanation; they’ll think he’s insane, think he’s seeing dead kids all over again.

High spirits lead to unfortunate endings

With a tear in her eye, Mary, his loving wife for the past forty-four years, knelt before him in her white nightdress on the bathroom’s cold linoleum floor ...

dinner for crows

CLAWS: THE KILLER SANTA

By
Sean Orpin

This work has been registered with the Writers' Copyright Association (www.wcauk.com). Registration No: C103290New England, Yuletide.